Photographs
by Guard24
Summary: Written for the prompt: The Charmings and Killian are down after another day without Emma, so Snow gets out the photo albums to cheer them up and remember to have hope. Also, let's pretend that Emma had pictures of herself as younger Emma somewhere and put them in the albums way before she was the Dark Swan, so then they all get a surprise to see baby Emma smiling up at them.


It's the aura of the room that slices the hardest. No more is there petty small talk and forced smiles as they sip on cups of tea, pretending, forever pretending that all is well. Silence takes its place, the comforting gestures of solemn faces and sniffles to fill the void. The aches in his chest drive his frustration to the surface, for _his_ comforter is gone, filled with the darkness he fought so hard to ward off himself. And some days it comes crashing down, overwhelming his very being with the bruising weight and guilt of over three-hundred years behind him, that maybe she can't come back to him. Maybe she doesn't _want_ to come back to him. There's always the quiet voices lurking in his conscious, the ones promising love, hope, and happy endings. But now they stay muted by anger and sorrow, oozing from the depths of his heart and into the loft, into her parents and son. Contagious. Toxic.

"I can't take this anymore!" Mary Margaret bursts, her hands expanding out to her sides in what would be a dramatic gesture if it wasn't exactly how everyone was feeling. "We have to stop moping around. We can't live like this!"

Charming sighs with an upwards tilt of his head, pursing his lips together and inhaling deeply through his nose. "Snow's right. We. . ."

However for Killian, right and wrong went out the window when the darkness tethered itself to Emma. It wasn't a matter of whether the reformed bandit was correct; she often was. This was no exception. But morality and long-term effects aside, Killian's emotions dictated his mood, as baneful as it may be.

 _But Emma wouldn't want this._

He wants to tell the voice to shut up, to find someone else to torture with it's sense of good form and code and damn virtue, its desire to please Emma even in her absence. He deserves to sulk.

 _Stop giving into the pessimism._

Killian shuts his eyes, remembering the green of hers and letting that memory wash over him. It's still overwhelming, this longing he's drenched in. "What do you suggest we do?" The pirate's tone is earnest, bordering desperation as he looks to Emma's mother.

"We. . .We remember. She isn't gone." Snow pivots, walking to the bookshelf to retrieve what they call a photo album (he doesn't quite get the name, but then again he never does), and he smiles. The two settle on the couch, David and Henry standing behind it as she opens to the first page.

The picture box captures every detail, far superior to an artist conjuring up a colorless sketch. The pink blush of her cheek and twinkle in her eye as she stands proudly by Henry. The curve of her knuckles tugging at her father's waist. He thinks his favorite part is that she's always smiling in them, wide and posed and happy. But then he thinks those aren't his favorite - that that category is reserved for candid moments between the two of them. These are the photographs that Snow sneaks in, capturing the intimate looks they share over meals at Granny's, or her head in the crook of his neck, fingers woven with his own after falling asleep during a Netflix marathon.

He reaches for one of her before their first date, thumbing the shiny surface of the film with a slow intensity. It was obvious she hadn't been expecting the blue flash, her mouth open in mid-sentence and irises wide with surprise. She was stunning, her lacy, soft covering and pulled back hair more than he expected, more than he deserved. Killian traces the crinkles skirting her eyes, his thumb covering the entirety of her face in the process.

"She was so happy after that night," Mary-Margaret offers as he slips the paper back into the clear plastic veil.

"As was I," Hook replies. Minutes pass as they exchange the origins of each photograph: birthday parties and celebrations, double dates and school projects, days out at sea with picnics on the Jolly. He's engulfed in the recollections, the pain languorously morphing into a bitter sweetness that is masked through sorrow and small smiles.

When Snow turns the page, a collective hitch of breaths fill the loft as they are met with new images. Pictures that offer no memories, but rather a whisper of what could have been in a past that was not their own. Images of a little girl with piercing green eyes and soft golden curls, posed shyly next to what had to be a teacher. She couldn't have been more than ten, still baby faced with chubby cheeks, dark rectangular frames resting on the bridge of her nose.

"But how. . ." Henry started, letting the unspoken words trail off in the shock.

David's hand searches for his wife's, clasping it in his own. "Emma must have snuck some pictures in here before."

 _Before she became the Dark One. Before muscle memory and I love you._

"David, she's beautiful."

She was adorable and Killian craves more, to know more about her beginnings and the teacher beaming proudly to her right. He wants to know when she stopped wearing the spectacles that bettered her vision and why the backpack tucked away in a corner looked too heavy for her frail figure. He wants to know every detail.

They find another photograph of her two pages over. She's sitting on the floor cocooned in blankets, beaming brightly at the camera next to an equally elated Lily. "She looks like you, lad." Killian says, eyes parting from the picture to meet Henry's.

"Really?" Henry contemplates the image for a moment, taking the book from his grandmother to get a closer look. "I don't see it.". The boy turns the page, removing a strip of photos of Killian and Emma and giving it to the pirate. "I think these are yours, Killian."

There's four photos of him and Emma, each aligned vertically. In the first one, they're smiling, her head tilted into his, dimples wide and eyes alight with joy. Below that, her lips are pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, a glimmer of happy surprise in his eyes as he tries failingly to suppress a grin. She must have found his reaction more hilarious than he could comprehend, because in the photograph that follows, Emma is doubled over in uncontrollable laughter. His face is turned in her direction as he stares at her like he always does: mesmerized with her light, beauty, and persona soaking it in as if it's the first and last time he may ever witness such a feat. In the last picture, his eyebrow is raised in question at her pointing, scolding hand and scrunched face. She looks like she might burst any second, filling the small curtained space with another fit of laughter. (He hadn't let her, taking the following moment to tangle his hand in her hair and letting their foreheads touch. He had kissed her then, breathless and consuming as she had smiled into his mouth and pulled him closer. _You're beautiful, Swan_. She kissed him again, breathy and so blissfully happy when she replied _Told you the photo booth would be fun_.)

It was so different from the last time he saw her, all the light and love, everything that made up the essence of Emma Swan, being sucked away, sheathed by the darkness and leaving her so cold. A puppet that was pawned to fate's game. He slips the memory, along with the photos, into his side jacket pocket. When his gaze drifts back to the album, he is met with a white grainy emptiness that has yet to be filled. An almost hope fading into a deep anguish at the tangibility of her absence and the stories he may never know or have the chance to experience. The camera doesn't capture this.


End file.
